But in Dreams
by Mercury Gray
Summary: The morning before his knighthood, Boromir dreams of things that were.
1. To sleep, to sleep perchance to dream

I don't own any characters/places/things you recognize...that should cover everything else I don't feel like typing.  
  
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Boromir knelt in the freezing cold of the great hall in early morning, looking with reverence at the heirlooms he was to be given that morning, laid out on the black velvet covered table. He cracked his head to the side, winching as vertebrae in his neck cracked back into place. There was Faramir, half sleeping, and also kneeling, the sixteen year old not that much worse for the wear after keeping vigil all night with his brother.  
  
And the morning to come, he would be knighted, laid upon with the burden of being pronounced the heir to the stewardship, and given the tokens of the house of Húrin that labeled him as such.  
  
Boromir's eyes glanced across the table again, looking at the sword his father had specially crafted for his oldest, the matching dagger laying along side, gleaming with unmarked lethal perfection in the cold shafts of moonlight from the high bank of windows near the roof of the hall. The spurs and the shield that would should that he was a knight of Gondor, and the great horn, gleaming in moon-silvered ivory splendor, all seemed to gaze back at him, calling... As his eyes focused more clearly on the horn, and then seemed to swim out of focus again, Boromir decided it wouldn't hurt to take a nap.  
  
And while he slept, he dreamed.  
  
'To sleep, to sleep perchance to dream...'  
  
'Dreamed of the ones who've gone before...'  
  
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Don't worry, the next chapter will have plot in it. I want to go somewhere with this... fear not, dear reviewers.... 


	2. To dream within a dream

I don't own any characters/places/things you recognize...that should cover everything else I don't feel like typing.  
  
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And while he slept, he dreamed.  
  
Boromir was no longer in the great hall, he thought, as he looked around at the battlefield filled with the most bizarre creatures one could imagine. Tree men and women, and creatures half man and half horse, or half man and half beast, and in this midst, a great lion, proud and terrible, and four children, two boys and two girls, the oldest of the group not perhaps Faramir's age.  
  
All of them seemed to be fighting the fell sprits in the glade beside this river, shadows and shades, hags and crones, ogres and dark creatures that lurk still in the deep places. Commanding them, wand in hand, and curvy dagger in the other, was a tall woman, cloaked entirely in white, her voice screeching and shrill. The older girl raised a horn to her lips, and a not altogether unfamiliar note resounded over the battlefield, and the creatures presumably fighting for good seemed renewed.  
  
As Boromir looked at the horn, he could see that it was that of a great ox, bound in gold and silver, etched with hunting scenes, and other fair things to look upon. And he looked from the horn to the bearer's face, and saw another not all-together unfamiliar face. Framed in hair of sable, with eyes of gray as piercing when angry of those of a falcon at hunt, and as soft and warm when joyful as the wondrous cloth of Lórien, he could have sworn that the face he had seen before.  
  
But the lion called to the girl, who could not have been fourteen, and she turned, and ran after him, a bow in her hand. And the vision faded to another distant time.  
  
The girl was older now, her black hair running a river of soft curves almost down to her knees, and she was wearing a crown of silver on her head, and a dress of rich design and means, the cut emphasizing her figure, fuller in her womanhood. At her sides sat the other children she had been with, all of them much older and noble in their face and garb. They sat enthroned in a grand hall, with great banners of all the manner of color and a great many beasts besides.  
  
And then the vision changed again, to a man, kneeling at the Queen's feet, holding her snow-white hand, and looking up at her in admiration. Oh, Boromir thought, if only to be that man, to behold this perfect womanhood in light of love unhidden. She bade him rise, and laid in his hands the horn which she herself had bourn so many years ago, neither mottled with age or unkempt; it still shown with a certain light of divinity, as if sent by Gods for a heavenly purpose. He took it, and kissed her check in farewell. And as he left, she began to weep.  
  
And the scenes shifted yet another time, and the man held out the horn to his son, who passed it down to his son, shifting through time and generation showing no real wear, still glowing with the air of sanctity. It passed several times to women, dark haired and fair and proud of glance, Númenoreans all.  
  
And then to a man, who gave it to his son, who took with it, and other precious things besides, and sailed away from a sinking land, and set foot in the earth of a far oft shore, and claimed it as his own. The horn passed for many generations along, from father to son, son to grandson, never seeming to lose its god given glory. Then the father had no sons, and gifted it to the youngest of his councilors, who had been like a son to the aging king, and so that horn passed along another line. And then, Boromir felt a hand on his shoulder, and was roused from his dreaming.  
  
He looked up to see the face of his father, wreathed in smiles for what this day meant to him. He looked to his other side to see Faramir, his squire and brother-one bond that would never break till the world ended- also smiling in the joy he knew this would bring his elder brother.  
  
He heard the words, and spoke the oaths, and let himself be girded with the scabbard and belt he knew had lain long in a chest, made by his mother for her son, but his mind was not here until his father held with open hands out to him the horn of the Stewards, the great horn, and then he awoke from his half dreaming state to take it with trembling hands, and rise to great his lord and father.  
  
As Boromir looked at it, his mind went again to the dark haired woman, letting forth from the instrument of war that clear, resounding note. And her face seemed to change as the world spun, changing from the battlefield to the white rampart of the city, and now the black haired woman had tears in her eyes, eyes that he knew so well...  
  
And with the horn reverberating in his mind, his eyes flew open.  
  
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Ah, a cliffhanger. Gives me more of a chance to give you some of the plot AND leave reviews. WHICH YOU WILL DO. I'm kidding...but I would be grateful. 


	3. It is a long tale in the telling

Don't own it, wish I did...oh well, too bad.  
  
MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE END OF 'JOURNEY THROUGH THE DARK'  
  
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The sound of the horn still echoing in his head, Boromir sat up in bed with a start, looking around the room. A flock of white lilies, and other fair flowers besides, sat in vases at the windows, and the bed in which he sat was draped in cloth of clouds. His attention was drawn to the spread of roses in the vase at the foot of the bed, ivory hewn and glimmering with the sheen of dew. Tonight was not his knighting-tonight was his wedding night.  
  
He looked beside him at Rhoswen, his newly wed wife, his rose, most blessed of all flowers in this garden of the sun tower, sleeping soundly. He brushed a loose black hair from her face with gentle fingers, meaning not to wake her. But she stirred, and looked up at her husband with a smile.  
  
"What did you dream of, lover of mine? You are unsettled."  
  
"Nothing to concern yourself with...it is a long tale in the telling..."  
  
"And morning is far off. Tell me. Were we not bound in our vows to share what pains the other should endure? I would bear this burden with you, husband." And so Boromir drew a deep breath, and began to tell his wife of his dreamings.  
  
When he had finished, he asked her a question.  
  
"Did you sound the horn? Was it you in my dream, sounding that trumpet of courage from the highest of the towers?" Rhoswen sat up in bed, drawing the sheets around her.  
  
"Once, when Faramir came home half dead. I was so struck with grief that I should lose both lover and brother that for ten blessed seconds, I felt a part of you stir inside myself as I let that note call the whole city to arms. Something I did not know was there." Boromir held her close, his chin resting on the top of her head.  
  
"And we shall keep the horn ...not as the symbol of the stewardship, but as a reminder ...of many things, long old and past their time and others not as aged as that."  
  
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To the wonderful folks who tell me what they think, because everyone's opinion is worth listening to.  
  
Catherine Maria- thanks...don't consider my self a poet...but if you like it, there's more.  
  
Terreis- Can you hear me? Do you need CPR? Dear god, you shouldn't read this if it's hazardous to your health...maybe I should post warnings, like on McDonalds coffee...Caution- may induce lightheadedness and delusions of Gondor...I mean Grandeur.  
  
Lotr- nutcase- glad someone picked up on that...dunno what I'll be doing with that, as this is probably the last chapitre. Darn you for guessing that already! I still have to post that part...but I updated Rhoswen...so the horn of Gondor is now in the possession of Faramir, also in possession of two hobbits by the names of Frodo and Sam... it'll get home momentarily.  
  
Roaming pony- plot? I was supposed to have a plot? Forgive me, is this plot? I've forgotten...  
  
If you decide to leave me a review, and I hope you will, please be specific as to what you liked/disliked ( I hope not) in my story. Thanks. 


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